


When the Colors Bleed Away

by Woland



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Tony, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, Irondad, spiderson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-01-16 16:51:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18525646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Woland/pseuds/Woland
Summary: I needed an excuse to write some irondad whumpage: a mostly plotless drabble with lots of angst and hurt (and comfort, of course).





	1. Chapter 1

Mr. Stark isn’t in the workshop when Peter goes down there to ask if he can go hang out with Ned and MJ for a few hours.   He’s made himself unusually scarce ever since Happy dropped Peter off at the Tower after school, and Peter, as excited as he’d been earlier to spend the weekend working with his mentor, couldn’t help feeling … neglected.  And bored.  Very, very bored.

 

He shakes his head, already turning back toward the door, when a piece of crumpled paper on the work table catches his eye.   It looks unusual there in the midst of all the tech.  Foreign. Out of place.

His hand reaches for it without conscious thought, his curiosity getting the better of him.  He peeks at the print, fingers absently smoothing out the wrinkled surface.

And freezes, his breath hitching in horrified surprise, as he takes in the words: the acidic vitriol, the rage, the cold, venomous threat, the…. 

 

“Hey, Pete.  Whatcha doing here?”

 

He jolts, badly, upon hearing Mr. Stark’s voice.  Twists around to face him, his fingers spasming around the already crumpled sheet.  And he can see the moment that Mr. Stark notices what he’s holding in his hand.  Can see a flash of worry and guilt in his eyes an instant before a mask slams down; can see the way his easy smile tightens, morphing into something unnatural, something plastic and tense.   And he knows, he _knows_ without even having to ask, but he needs to, he needs to!

 

“You weren’t even gonna tell me, were you?”

 

“Pete…” 

 

There’s a note of warning in Mr. Stark’s voice now, but Peter ignores it, the near overwhelming fear morphing into anger in his chest.

 

“This guy…” He shakes his fisted hand, the paper crinkling through the air with the sharp motions.  “This guy wants to kill you!  He… he talks about you like you’re already… already _dead_!… And you… you…”

 

Mr. Stark’s mouth twitches into a mockingly bitter half-smile.  “I’m a public figure, Peter.  And not always a popular one.  Death threats are par for the course.  And if I worried about every lunatic who sends them to me, I wouldn’t have time to focus on anything else.” 

 

He tries to sound nonchalant, but Peter can hear the strain behind the words, the slightly elevated beat of Mr. Stark’s heart.  It sets him on edge.

 

“This one’s different,” he surmises, the sudden certainty of his conjecture only solidifying when he sees the way the skin around Mr. Stark’s eyes pinches at his words.  “Isn’t it?”

 

Mr. Stark, predictably, does not respond.  FRIDAY, on the other hand…

 

“Someone tried to force Boss off the road earlier today.”

 

“FRI!” Mr. Stark snaps in admonishment, but it is already too late, and Peter stares at him, horrified, his whole body tensing as he tries to process what he just heard.

 

“What? H-how?”

 

Mr. Stark sighs, annoyed; runs an angry hand through his hair.  And Peter doesn’t miss a small wince that flits across the man’s face at the sharp movement.  And oh, _oh!…_

“You’re hurt!” he accuses, and he can’t believe this, he cannot believe this! And now the man’s unusual earlier absence makes sense.  “How bad?”

 

 “It’s nothing, Peter,” Mr. Stark tries, folding his arms defensively across his chest.  But his movements are a bit too careful this time, calculated, slow.

 

Peter’s jaw twitches.

 

“It’s your ribs, isn’t it?” he all but growls out.  “Broken? Cracked?”

 

It is FRIDAY, once again, who answers.  “Hairline rib fractures on ribs 8 and 9 on the left side.  A sprained wrist and–”

 

“Mute!” The anger in Mr. Stark’s voice is unmistakable now, and the AI obeys with a soft crackle of disappointment.  And Mr. Stark deflates, just like that.  Lowers himself gingerly onto the couch by the door, no longer bothering to hide another wince of pain.  Leans back, eyes closed.

 

“Why did you have me come here?” Peter blurts out before he can stop himself.  Wavers slightly when Mr. Stark lifts his head up to give Peter an unimpressed glare.  “You’re injured, you’re… clearly in pain.  Why?”

 

Mr. Stark lets out a breath, long and deep.  He looks tired to Peter all of a sudden, vulnerable, old.

 

“This person, whoever he is, seems to have done his homework,” he says, voice weary, low.  “Probably stalked me for quite some time, and there’s a good chance that he might decide to strike out against someone who’s close to me.  Pepper is in Malibu with Happy.  Colonel Rhodes is in DC.  The only ones with direct connections to me here are you and May, and I couldn’t risk him targeting you if that was the case.”  His jaw tightens angrily.  “I had you brought here because I thought it would be safer than having you go home by yourself.”  He raises his hand before Peter even opens his mouth, forestalling his question, “May’s safe.  I had someone pick her up from work and she’ll be coming here in a bit, too.”

 

Peter huffs, incredulous.  “Mr. Stark, I–”

 

“I’ll take care of it, Peter, don’t worry,” Mr. Stark interrupts him, misinterpreting Peter’s expression.  “I’ll make sure you and May are safe.”

 

“It’s not…” Peter shakes his head in frustration.  Because this is _not_ what he’s worried about, and Mr. Stark is still not getting it, and… “You’re going after this guy alone?” he blurts out, and it comes out too critical, too harsh.

 

Mr. Stark raises an eyebrow at him.  “I’ve done this before, kid.” And he’s wearing his “I’m Iron Man” face, and there’s a hint of condescension in his voice, an attempt to mollify, to appease.

 

And Peter hates it.  He’s not a little kid anymore, he doesn’t need this.  He needs, he needs…. “He almost killed you,” he breathes out, raw plea choking up his words.

 

Mr. Stark’s expression softens in understanding, and he stands with a wince; crosses the distance between them.  “I’ll be alright, Pete,” he assures, reaching to ruffle Peter’s hair.

 

But Peter ducks out of the way; steps stubbornly out of reach.  “Uncle Ben said the same thing,” he spits out bitterly and bolts from the room, ignoring the flash of surprised hurt in his mentor’s eyes.

 

 

***

 

He’s only mildly surprised to find Mr. Stark waiting for him outside the cemetery gates, leaning against the side of his car, arms crossed over his chest.  There’s a stormy look in his eyes, an angry clench in his jaw.

 

Peter can do angry, too.

 

“What are you doing here?”

 

“Funny.” Mr. Stark’s gaze narrows ever so slightly.  “I could ask you the same thing.”

 

“I come here when I need to think,” Peter offers reluctantly.  Ben’s grave is his special place, his secret, and… “How did you find me here?”

 

“Your tracker,” Mr. Stark nods at the watch on Peter’s wrist, the watch Mr. Stark gave him last Christmas, and Peter feels a wave of irritation flare fast and hot inside his chest.

 

“Another one of your ‘baby monitor’ protocols?” he spits out, fists clenching.  And this sucks, he thinks, this really sucks. He thought they were past this.  “Are you _ever_ gonna trust me?” 

 

Mr. Stark’s jaw twitches.  “Perhaps,” he allows with a slight tilt of his head.  “When you start acting like the responsible person you claim to be.”

 

“I’m–”

 

“I _told_ you that I brought you to the Tower to keep you out of harm’s way,” Mr. Stark interrupts, his voice growing sharper, more heated.  “In what universe does that imply you get to sneak out on your own and go off traipsing across town for a graveside visit?”

 

“I needed to _think_ ,” Peter repeats stubbornly, his own voice rising to match Mr. Stark’s.  And he knows he’s being unreasonable here, knows he’s bordering on disrespectful, but this thing, this threat – it has bothered him more than he would like to admit; rattled him in a way he hasn’t been since… since that day on Titan all those years ago.  And he just… he… 

 

“You have the whole Tower at your disposal,” Mr. Stark points out, hand waving vaguely in the direction from which, Peter assumes, he came.  “93 floors was not enough for ya?” 

 

“I can go wherever I please,” Peter retorts childishly with an eye roll that makes Mr. Stark’s eyebrows rise in dismay.  “You don’t get to tell me what to do. You’re not my father.” 

 

He regrets the words the moment they slip out of his mouth.  Wants to clamp his teeth around them, take them all back.  Because he didn’t mean it.  _Dear God_ , he did not mean any of it.

 

 But it is too late, and the blow lands, sure and cruel, Mr. Stark flinching with the force of it.        

 

Mr. Stark is silent for a long, long minute, his gaze lost somewhere above Peter’s shoulder, his shoulders hunched in tired, weary defeat.  “I’m now regretting not coming to get you in the suit,” he murmurs finally, and his voice sounds so neutral, so cold that Peter wants to scream.  “Would have served you right being flown across town under Iron Man’s arm like the tantruming toddler you are so clearly trying to channel right now.” 

He pushes himself off the car, still not making eye contact.  Starts to walk around toward the driver’s side.  “Get in the car, Pete,” he throws flatly over his shoulder, and Peter is too horrified by the impact of his own thoughtless outburst to disobey.

 

He slips inside onto the back seat, feeling undeserving and frankly terrified to sit next to Mr. Stark right now.  Hides his face in his hands, wracking his brain as he tries to come up with some way, _any_ way to fix this.

 

The hair on his arms stand up an instant before his ears register the roar of an accelerating car engine outside, and he jolts in place, covering his head instinctively, as a volley of gunfire sprays the driver’s side of Mr. Stark’s car.  The precaution is unnecessary, he knows  – Mr. Stark’s car is bulletproof. 

 

Only Mr. Stark… Mr. Stark wasn’t _in_ the car when the shots were fired.  Mr. Stark was… is…

 

He bolts out of the car, nearly ripping the door off in the process.  Scrambles around the trunk, his feet slipping on the loose gravel in his hurry to get to the driver’s side.

 

And stops, his breath – a solid ice block of horror in his lungs as he stares down at the gruesome scene before him.

 

“No,” he chokes out, stumbling forward on buckling, shaky legs.  “No, no, no.”

 

He drops to his knees beside Mr. Stark’s awkwardly slumped form. Stares in gasping, numb disbelief at a row of ugly tears that mar the fabric of Mr. Stark’s shirt; at the dark stains that spread forth from each one, saturating the black material.  Hovers in breathless indecision, losing a few precious seconds, before he rips off his outer shirt and presses it hard to the blood-drenched fabric, his heart clenching with fear as the folded flannel becomes soaked in a matter of moments.

 

Mr. Stark shifts slightly underneath his hands, pale lips parting to let out a moan that quickly dissolves into a series of harsh, rattling coughs.  He’s breathless and gasping for air by the time he’s done, his lips and chin painted an unsettlingly bright red.  Peter clenches his teeth against the sight; slides one arm under Mr. Stark’s back to raise him up a bit, to pull him against his chest, hoping to ease the man’s breathing.

 

It doesn’t seem to help.  Mr. Stark continues to gasp uselessly in Peter’s grasp, his eyes flying open, wild gaze searching, searching until it settles blearily on Peter’s face.

 

“Y…you… k-kay?” he wheezes out, a wet gurgle accompanying each choked off word.

 

“I’m fine, Mr. Stark, I’m… I’m okay,” Peter manages, fighting the urge to scream, because _he’s_ not the one Mr. Stark should be concerned about.  He’s…

 

“C-car… get… get in… ‘ts… saf-” The word is cut off on another nasty cough, and Mr. Stark goes rigid in Peter’s arms, his face twisting with pain, eyes slamming shut.

 

Peter holds on to him, tears of helplessness and fear clouding his vision as the ruthless agony that engulfs Mr. Stark’s body seems to go on and on and on.  And then it stops abruptly, and Mr. Stark goes suddenly, terrifyingly limp against him, and Peter’s world spins and crumbles into a colorless, ash-filled void of despair.   

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long wait. RL's been a little busy lately, so didn't have much time to write. Hopefully the wait ends up being worth it :)

Chapter 2

 

A familiar whoosh of thrusters cuts through the air above him, filtering through the violent whirlpool of fear and loss that rages within him, slowly but surely dragging him down, down, down.  It takes him a moment to register the origins of the sound, the reason for the familiarity of it. And then it finally clicks and he jolts, his arms tightening involuntarily around Mr. Stark’s limp form as the red and gold suit lands beside him with an uncharacteristically heavy, graceless thump.

 

“F…FRIDAY?”

 

The suit’s cold blue eyes regard him silently for a brief moment, before it steps closer, an arm extending toward them. 

 

“Let me take him, Peter.”  FRIDAY’s normally warm Irish lilt sounds tight somehow, clipped.  “Please, while there’s still time.”

 

And Peter can hear it now, underneath the deafening roar of panic: a faint thump-thump-thump of Mr. Stark’s heart. Faltering, fading… 

 

That sound, that treasured and inexorably dimming proof of Mr. Stark’s ebbing life, is enough to spur him into action.  He scrambles to his feet as quickly as he can without jostling the unresponsive man, carefully transfers his precious cargo into FRIDAY’s waiting arms.  Watches as the suit straightens out, Mr. Stark’s limp form cradled with utmost gentleness against the metal chest.

 

“Get in the car, Peter. It’ll take you back to the Tower.”

 

And he starts violently at the unintentional, cruel echo of Mr. Stark’s earlier words.  If only he had listened then.  If only he’d done as he was told while Mr. Stark was still safe, instead of making the man stand there and argue with him…

 

The sound of the suit’s thrusters engaging cuts off the self-recriminating spiral of his thoughts, and he’s left to stare numbly up at the rapidly disappearing streak of red and gold, until it becomes nothing more than a tiny speck in the distance.  Only then does he will his legs to move.

 

***

 

He spends the ride back to the Tower hunched over in the back seat of Mr. Stark’s car, staring glumly at the expensive black leather of the seat in front of him.  The seat Mr. Stark should be sitting in, if he weren’t… if Peter hadn’t… if…

 

He clenches his teeth on a useless howl of anguish; curls further in on himself.

 

FRIDAY doesn’t speak to him as she guides the car swiftly through the city streets, and he isn’t sure how to feel about that.  He would have preferred if she’d said something, he thinks.  Chastised him, perhaps.  Yelled at him.  Assured him, however falsely, that Mr. Stark was gonna be okay.

 

But maybe it’s best she doesn’t speak to him.  Maybe he doesn’t deserve anything more than her silence.  It was _his_ fault, after all, that her creator wasn’t protected when it counted, that he got hurt as badly as he did.  How could he expect her to speak to him, to offer him any comfort after that?

 

The car comes to an abrupt stop, jerking him out of his somber musings, and he looks up, blinking owlishly at his surroundings.  _The Tower.  They were back at the Tower, and how did he not notice that?_

“Medical wing, Peter,” FRIDAY’s voice breaks the oppressive silence, bringing his attention back to the confines of the car.  “The elevator will take you straight there.”

 

He doesn’t need more encouragement than that.

 

***

 

May is the first person he sees when he steps out of the elevator.  She looks frazzled, he notes, her face lined with concern as she paces nervously in front of the darkened windows of the OR.  He wonders if the way she holds herself – all stiff and trembling – means she knows something about Tony, if the doctors said anything yet, if Tony’s…

 

“May?” he calls out, taking a small, hesitant step forward, desperately needing to know but just as terrified of what she might tell him.

 

She whirls at the sound of his voice, rushes toward him, arms held out in invitation and need.  And freezes mid-step, the expression of relief morphing into one of breathless horror.

 

“Peter…” she gasps out, hands grasping painfully at his shoulders as she stares at some random spot around his midsection before raising her troubled wide-eyed gaze to Peter’s face.  “Peter, honey, are you hurt?”

 

He frowns at her in confusion, mouth opening as he moves to reassure her that he is, in fact, perfectly unharmed. But then he glances down to where May’s gaze was drawn just moments ago and the words of reassurance die on his lips as he sees what it is that has captured his aunt’s attention.  Blood, Mr. Stark’s blood.  The front of his tee and jeans are soaked with it, stiff and heavy against his body.  He shivers, as an unpleasantly cold sensation wraps itself around him, his stomach tightening in a painfully uncomfortable knot.

 

“I…,” he mumbles, the back of his throat burning with rising bile.  “I’m…”  And then his throat closes off completely and he tears himself violently out of May’s grasp, her worried calls of his name ignored as he makes a desperate dash for the closest restroom.

 

Later, as he kneels on the cold tiled floor, hands clutching the edges of the toilet bowl, his stomach twisting with dry violent heaves, May’s stubborn unwavering presence beside him and her cool trembling hand against the back of his neck are the only things that keep him from breaking altogether.

 

***

 

“So, you don’t have to worry about that guy anymore, Mr. Stark.”

 

They said he should talk to him; that it might help, might guide Mr. Stark back to them, help him wake up.  So he comes here and he talks.  About his classes, about his tests, about the experiment he and Ned have been working on, about the prank MJ pulled on Flash.  He apologizes, over and over and over, telling him he meant none of it, that he needs him, always have, always will.  He pleads with him to wake up.  He talks until his throat is raw, until May comes in to quietly usher him out of the room because it’s time to go home. 

 

He goes.  And then comes back again the next day.  And the next, and the next.  No matter how much he dreads those visits. No matter how much he hates the coldness of that room and its sterile smell, the stubborn awful stillness of Mr. Stark’s body and the steady beeping of the machines surrounding his bed.  He comes back and he talks, because he has to hope that it’s gonna work.  Because that hope is the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

 

“FRIDAY tracked his face and the car he was driving when he… when you were attacked.  So she hacked into that car’s computer and she made him… He’s gone.” He chews his bottom lip, momentarily unsure.  Then shrugs off his uncertainty, brows pulling together in a frown of determination.  “I know you’re probably not gonna like it, Mr. Stark, but I’m glad she did it.”  His voice turns hard, the fingers of his left hand curling into a fist.  “It was the right thing to do.  Your bots, your family – we care _so_ much about you, and this guy, he almost took you away from us, and…”

 

“She did the right thing,” he insists, quieter now, his gaze tracing the slow rise and fall of Mr. Stark’s chest, lingering guiltily on the thick swath of bandages that peeks out from underneath the hospital blanket.   “She did.  I only wish… I wish I’d done something, too.  I _should_ have done something.” 

 

He shakes his head, swallowing past an already familiar steadily building lump.  “I’m sorry, Mr. Stark.  I’m so, _so_ sorry.  For everything. I…”  

 

His eyes burn, and he squeezes them shut.  Only to force them open in breathless panic as the same haunting images flash before him in his mind’s eye.  Looks frantically at the motionless figure of his mentor, his gaze drawn once more to the man’s bandaged chest – _white, all white, no traces of red._

 

“I can’t sleep, Mr. Stark,” he confesses hoarsely, his hand inching hesitantly toward Mr. Stark’s slack fingers, needing the contact and simultaneously terrified of receiving something he’s sure he doesn’t deserve.

“I can’t sleep, because every time I close my eyes, all I see is blood.  Everywhere.  S-so… so much of it, and I can’t… I can’t see anything else.  It’s like… like all the colors are just gone and it’s just … just red… a-all around me.”

 

He clings to Mr. Stark’s hand, desperation momentarily overcoming fear.  Throws a hopeful glance at the man’s face, feeling that hope crumble once more into despair at the sight of the man’s slack, unresponsive features.

 

“I don’t know what to do anymore, Mr. Stark.  I can’t…  I need you to wake up, sir. I need you back.  I need…. Please,” he whispers, exhaustion and despair settling deep in his bones, dragging him down.  He lets himself sag forward onto the bed, his forehead thumping gently against Mr. Stark’s hand.  Feels his eyes droop closed again, whimpering in a pitiful appeal for mercy as the ocean of red encroaches on his vision once more.  But he’s too tired, too weak to fight against it anymore, and he gives in, letting his eyes slide closed, a breathless huff of a plea accompanying him to his tortured slumber, “Please, wake up.”

 

***

 

His sleep doesn’t last long.  It never does these days, the cruel images of Mr. Stark’s bloody lifeless body ripping him unceremoniously out of the latest nightmare. 

 

But something is different this time, he can feel it, even through the residual haze of his haunting dreams.  Still, it takes him a moment to register the feel of shaky fingertips carding awkwardly through his hair.  But when he does, when he _does…_

“Mr. Stark!” He sits up with a jolt, a little too quickly if the way the room spins around him is anything to go by.  But it doesn’t matter.  Nothing matters, because Mr. Stark is awake.  Mr. Stark is awake and he’s looking right at him, lips pulled in a wan, pale smile.

 

“Hey kid…” And there’s a hand lifting weakly toward him.  And it’s all the permission Peter needs.

 

He grabs the proffered hand, presses it with hungry reverence against his cheek.  And in the next moment he’s down, draped, blanket-like across Mr. Stark’s chest, as gently, as cautiously as he possibly can, while giving into the overwhelming need to curl himself around the man. Burrows his face into his mentor’s neck

 

“I missed you,” he breathes out hotly into Mr. Stark’s skin, heedless of the tears that run unchecked down his cheeks.  “I missed you so much!”

 

And heaves a shuddering sob of relief as he feels Mr. Stark’s arm wrap a bit clumsily across his shoulders.  “I missed you, too, kiddo.  I missed you, too.”


End file.
